


The Proper Applications of Useful Knowledge

by aces



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-26
Updated: 2005-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turlough was a sneak, not a murderer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proper Applications of Useful Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-"Enlightenment."

Over the years, in situations and for reasons Turlough had never described or explained to anyone who didn’t already know all about it anyway, he had become very, very adept at lurking unobtrusively.

“Sneak,” he could hear Tegan sneer in his head and was frankly grateful that he was good enough at it she wouldn’t catch him and actually say it outright.

He had to lurk for a long time, while Tegan cleaned up the mess leftover from their chess game and argued with the Doctor. He didn’t hear everything they argued about because once either one of them started shouting they usually immediately started speaking softly again. He heard enough to know at least part of the argument was about him, which made him wonder if they were trying to be considerate or if they didn’t want him to know they didn’t trust him.

On the other hand, Tegan had _never_ acted like she trusted him, so the second possibility seemed pretty damned unlikely.

Eventually Tegan left the console room, slamming the door behind her and huffing, muttering something about stupid bloody stubborn Time Lords. Turlough would have snorted and commented about that Earth expression involving pots and kettles but that would have drawn attention to himself, and what’s the point of lurking if you’re going to let everyone know exactly where you are? So he drew back even further into whatever shadows he could find in the corridor and waited until Tegan had turned a corner, heading for her room.

Turlough hesitated.

Coming from a background of highly developed sneaking and lurking skills, he was not exactly the type to provoke confrontation, to draw unpleasant attention to himself if he could help it. (Of course he _had_ drawn unpleasant attention to himself, which was exactly what had landed him in that bloody awful school on Earth, but that had only increased his dislike of making himself known, hadn’t it?)

He really wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

But it couldn’t be avoided. It would fester and seep in further and further if he didn’t say something soon, speak up, and he knew the Doctor wouldn’t say anything. The Doctor _hadn’t_ said anything, not since he had met him, and right now that fact was hanging over Turlough like a really unpleasant storm cloud. He needed to clear the air before he left the TARDIS. Needed to know where he stood because, somewhat despite himself, he _liked_ the Doctor.

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The Doctor was exactly where Turlough had expected him to be, leaning over the console and muttering to himself as he frowned at a readout. Turlough wondered where they’d put the chess set and table, as he could only see the chairs. But that was avoiding the issue.

“Hello, Doctor,” he said, and the Doctor looked up.

“Ahhh, Turlough,” he said, smiled briefly, and went back to his readout. “Anything I can do for you?”

“I was hoping to talk to you, actually,” Turlough answered, hovering near the door to the rest of the ship.

“Yes?” The Doctor moved to the next panel of the console, flipping a few switches and tapping another screen thoughtfully. “What about?”

“What just happened on Captain Wrack’s ship.”

The Doctor stilled and finally looked at him again. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He stepped back from the console but didn’t walk around it, didn’t come closer. Turlough hesitated before walking further into the room. He stood behind one of the wicker chairs, wrapping his fingers around its back, finding a snatch of comfort in hiding behind it. “Well,” the Doctor continued, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “What about Captain Wrack’s ship?”

Turlough couldn’t quite bring himself to look away from his hands on the chair. “How long did you know?” he asked quietly.

“How long did I know what?” the Doctor sounded patient, a little weary, and Turlough _still_ couldn’t tell if the Doctor were being deliberately obtuse or not.

He took another deep breath and looked up, meeting the Doctor’s eye across the console room. “How long did you know I was working for the Black Guardian?”

The Doctor sighed and started around the console. “Look, Turlough—”

“Tell me, Doctor!” Turlough moved, planting himself in the Doctor’s way and staring up at him. “I have to know.”

“Why?”

He frowned and looked away. “I have to know if you ever trusted me.”

“Turlough.” The Doctor put a hand on his shoulder and Turlough looked up again, unwillingly. “I trust you. And I thank you—as the Black Guardian pointed out, you rather saved my life in Wrack’s chamber.”

“I had to get away,” Turlough said, the weight of the Doctor’s hand on his shoulder heavier than it should have been, weighing him down with a responsibility he’d been trying to deny ever since he’d arrived on the TARDIS. He _had_ to leave this place, get away from the Doctor and that heavy responsibility, before it took him over and made him _heroic_ or something. “Can you understand that? I _had_ to get away from that awful English school and he didn’t really give me a choice I didn’t _want_ to kill you, I never wanted to, even less after I met you—”

“Turlough!” The Doctor shook him a little. “It’s alright. I can certainly understand the desire to get away from being—trapped.” He stepped back, turning away to the console as if about to go about his business once again. “Though I admit I was never quite desperate enough to make a pact like that with the Black Guardian…” His voice was wry.

Turlough watched him hunch over the console, still feeling the cold weight on his shoulder. “You’re a better person than I am,” he said, his mouth twisting.

The Doctor looked back at him over his shoulder. “Not necessarily,” he replied, something about his tone making Turlough frown. “We’ve all been forced into corners where options seemed extremely limited,” he went on, turning away again, and Turlough thought the tone of disinterest he employed was just a little too careful to be genuine. “Just remember, Turlough, that you didn’t go through with your end of the contract.”

“No, of course not.” Turlough sullenly wandered around the room, sitting down in one of the wicker chairs. “I never follow through on anything.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m grateful for that particular failing on this occasion,” the Doctor replied dryly.

Turlough rubbed his forehead. “How could I be so _stupid_?” he said. The Doctor looked up at that, brow furrowed, and he looked up as well, pleadingly. “I’m _sorry_ ,” he said.

The Doctor looked a tiny bit uncomfortable and glanced around the room as if hoping something would leap out to distract him. When the console failed to explode and no White Guardians made an unexpected appearance, he sighed and sat down in the other chair.

“I accept your apology,” the Time Lord said formally, leaning forward to ensure he kept Turlough’s attention. “I trust you.” He hesitated before adding, “You’re a good person, Turlough. You just have to trust yourself.” He sat back. “Alright?”

Turlough didn’t feel particularly good at the moment, or trustworthy. But then, some part of him was still asking why the devil he had let the prize get away from him when all he had to do was give up the Doctor. Why should he care about the Doctor, anyway? He was just some do-gooder who seemed to rely on luck half the time to get him out of nasty situations.

But that wasn’t it, was it? The Doctor was _good_ , there was no way to get around that, and Turlough _had_ learned to like him. He cared, even about Turlough, and nobody had cared about Turlough since his father—well. Quite.

Turlough was a sneak, not a murderer. Killing somebody was just _asking_ to get people’s attention. Killing the Doctor probably more than anybody else.

“You didn’t answer me,” he said at last, looking up to find that the Doctor had apparently been watching him this entire time. He felt his face warming, but the Doctor was the one who looked a little surprised. “When I asked how long you knew.”

“Ah.” The Doctor relaxed, and then he smiled and jumped up, heading—of course—back to the console. “That would be telling.”

Turlough stared at the Doctor’s back for a long time, but the Time Lord seemed content to leave the conversation there. Turlough huffed a soft laugh—he should have expected that. The Doctor _never_ explained anything if he could help it.

He stood up, preparing to leave the console room. He paused in the doorway, looking back. “Good night, Doctor,” he said.

“Good night, Turlough,” the Doctor replied, never looking up from the console.  
END


End file.
